Working in catering (yeah, that Master’s degree is really paying off, I’m telling you), I sometimes get to experience interesting things I would have otherwise never gotten the chance to. Fancy parties in fancy locations and fancy people making fancy small talks and fancy pay checks. Sometimes it’s the kind of party where a VIP guest is not allowed to even touch the bottle on the table by themselves, lest they break their fancy nail. Their slav- I’m sorry, their waiter is there to alleviate the danger of that happening. Other times it’s company parties, where the guests are less fancy, or as our catering manager called them – “simple people”. Sometimes it’s parties for political parties (parties’parties? parties for parties? party parties!). Take for example the party that’s openly against immigrants – I was working on their event once, sat in the back with a catering team that was 100% immigrants. Fun times.
Anyway, I usually don’t care much about the parties or the people there. I have never wanted a particularly lavish lifestyle or a job where everyone wears suits and talks about stocks and investments and fiscal return policies (this is what I imagine they are talking about). The struggling artist persona is too romanticized in my mind to leave space for financial ambitions. My financial ambitions conclude with the ability to pay rent. But there I was, earlier this week in a renovated building in a brand new apartment on the top floor, a place that’s never been lived in and was being used as a kitchen for this particular event and our manager told us to be particularly careful not to damage anything, because it’s a new place and it costs 2 million. 2 fucking million for a two story apartment in a nice neighbourhood in Vienna, corner view of the surrounding rooftops, balconies all around and a nice full wall window in the toilet – for everyone to get a nice full view of you sitting on your nice fancy toilet. And I stood there and thought about where I would put my bed if I lived here. Where would my desk be, where I would write my books and where I would sit and think about life, staring out of those giant windows.
Well, I’m a bit far away from having 2 million Euro and I guess I won’t reach them by not knowing what fiscal return policies are. And in any case, after a while of dreaming about owning this place I finally got to the big question – would that make me happy? Lets say I got the money and bought this place – would I finally be happy? I rather think I wouldn’t. I would sit on my fancy toilet and wonder why I still feel kind of crappy and why I still think life is kind of shitty. I would wonder why I went with a toilet-inspired word choice in that sentence and why there is a guy with a binoculars from the neighbouring building staring at me. And now, now we’ve arrived at the actual problem. It’s not that I don’t have 2 million. It’s not that whoever put the window in that toilet clearly has some issues. It’s that even in my fantasies I am never quite happy. But hey, that place was still really nice. Lets focus on that.